


Zémire et Azor

by Glen_Coco



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: (not original but i wrote this 4 years ago give me a break), Angst, Beauty and the Beast AU, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, hurt-comfort, i will put content warnings before each chapter, this is all pre-written so it WILL be finished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26655865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glen_Coco/pseuds/Glen_Coco
Summary: “There used to be a kingdom here, you know.”“Used to? Where’s it gone? On a vacation?”“No, no no, no. It’s still here, I guess. It’s just changed.”
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Creativity | Roman/Logic | Logan/Morality | Patton
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Pride Goeth Before the Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: None

“There used to be a kingdom here, you know.”  


“Used to? Where’s it gone? On a vacation?”  


“No, no no no. It’s still here, I guess. It’s just changed.”  


“Why?”  


“Why’s it changed? What a _marvelous_ question, child. Do you want an answer with that?”  


“Yes.”  


The old man groaned. “Very well. Let me tell you a story. Here, sit on this log.” The old man rolled his eyes and patted the empty space beside him. The small boy promptly sat, ankles crossed and legs swaying. He looked at him expectantly, eyes full of wonder. The old man looked into them and sighed, turning his head towards the east, where the sun would soon rise.  


“This story begins long ago, before you were born.”  


“ Wow! The -”  


“Oh, _please_ interrupt me. I absolutely love it when annoying children speak over me.”  


“I’ll be quiet sir.”  


“As I was saying.” The man paused, searching for the right words with a pondering finger tapping against his chin. Then, in a moment of clarity, his finger zapped away from his face and wrapped around the boy’s shoulder, tugging him into his plump side.  


“I remember how these stories go now. Once upon a time, there was a kingdom. This was a kingdom of splendor, full of wealth and magic. It was a land full of adventure, just positively brimming with possibilities.”  


“And for every kingdom, there is royalty. And for every royal house, there is a prince. And the prince of this kingdom was just marvelous, once you got past his conceited egotism and his disdain for anyone beneath him.”  


“I thought princes were supposed to be heroes.”  


The old man scoffed. “That’s what they’re supposed to be, of course. But each great hero has to go on a quest for something or another. This prince hadn’t had his yet.”  


“Anyway, one stormy night, an old beggar found himself on the steps of the palace. Shivering and cold, he went to the prince for help, begging for shelter from the bitter night. In return, he offered the prince a single rose.”  


“The prince, being the self-centered royal he was, denied him, saying that it was not suitable for a noble prince to share quarters with such an ugly beggar. The beggar warned him not to be so selfish, for beauty wasn’t found on the outside, and even a beast deserved kindness.”  


“The prince dismissed the beggar again, which was really the moment that sealed his fate. For you see, little child, that beggar was not some poor old man, but rather a powerful sorcerer. When he revealed his true form, the prince shed his false bravado and cowered, apologizing for his actions. But it was too late. The sorcerer had already seen the scourge of his pride, and transformed him into a hideous beast and cursed the entire castle - and kingdom.”  


“The kingdom, once known for its magic, was forgotten. The memory of the royal family was banished from the minds of its citizens, falling into states of township. And the prince?”  


“Disgusted by himself, he locked himself away, with only a magic mirror to connect him to what once would have been his kingdom. His only hope was the rose that the beggar had offered, for just like the beggar, the rose was truly magical. The rose would stay in bloom until his twenty-first year. If, by that time, the prince had not learned to love another, nor have his love returned, the last petal would fall and the curse would be sealed, dooming the beast and the kingdom to its fate for all time.”  


“As the years passed, the beast forgot himself. He gave up hope, for you see, who could learn to love a beast?”


	2. The Provincial Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: None

Somewhere, far off in the countryside, was a little town nestled into rolling green hills and tall woods. Its roads were thin and rickety, yet the people were colorful still. Every so often there was a fountain, and somehow the local shepherd’s sheep would escape and be found wandering the village.

The village life was as steady as a stream. And so, just like every day before, the sun rose over the hills and laid its rays gently on the town. As the sun began to reach each crevice it could stretch into, the people began to wake up to say -

“Bonjour!”

“Bonjour!”

“BONJOUR!”

“Ugh…” Virgil grumbled, pulling his book closer to his face. Yes, the predictability of the town was nice, but it still got on his nerves. He wished he could say that today would be different, that something good would happen today, but he couldn’t. It was the same life as ever.

He never thought that would dissatisfy him.

On cue, the baker rounded the corner with his baguettes piled atop a tray, the top of his bald head barely visible over the mountain of bread. A woman overhead burst out her window to scream “BONJOUR!” to the town, and Virgil flinched, just like he had done yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The entire provincial village ran on clockwork, and the repetitiveness of it made Virgil miss Paris because despite all of its flaws, at least it wasn’t boring.

“Good morning Virgil!” the baker greeted, eyeing him warily.

“Morning monsieur,” Virgil mumbled, glaring at him over his book. Where are you off to? He would ask.

“Where are you off to?”

Virgil gestured vaguely down a street. “The bookshop. I just finished this new story-” he waved his book around “- about an ogre, and a beanstalk, and this sw-”

“That’s nice. MARIE! We need more baguettes!” The baker turned from Virgil and Virgil gratefully walked away, sticking to the shadows provided by the houses.

Sometimes, people turned to look at him. Virgil wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t imagining it, but their lips seemed to move like gossipers’. When Virgil strained to listen, he could pick up traces of their conversations.

“...strange no question…”

“...rude and distracted…”

“... never hangs out with anyone…”

“...such a funny boy…”

Virgil hissed and slunk further into his tunic as he crept into the marketplace, feeling the walls of people tighten around him. All around, vendors had set up shop with little carts. Most were selling food, but the occasional stall had finer things, such as jewelry or fabric. One little cart even had bells, which seemed odd, but Virgil didn’t question it. According to the town, he was well acquainted with odd.

The voices of the marketplace clamored and shouted, deafening Virgil’s ears. One woman desperately cried, “I need six eggs!” with tears in her eyes. Another had thrown themselves to the floor begging for a head of lettuce. “That’s too expensive!” one shouted out. Virgil groaned and hugged his book to his chest. His chest filled with wanting to be somewhere else.

As soon as he rounded the corner of the street, the talk faded away, and Virgil quickly strode over to the bookshop, closing the door thankfully behind him. He leaned against the wood, eyes closed and breathing deeply.

“You look out of breath, boy.” 

Virgil’s head shot up from the wood as he searched the bookstore until - oh, there he is. The bookkeeper was on top of a ladder, his white wig slightly askew.

“Yeah, I don’t like - um, I don’t like the crowds.”

The bookkeeper chuckled. “Me neither. Why do you think I run a bookstore?” He climbed down the ladder, only slipping a few times, which was quite the accomplishment for him. “It’s the perfect getaway for peace and quiet. Though it has been a bit busier since you came to town.” He peered at Virgil knowingly through his glasses.

“Oh, uh, sorry about that.”

“It’s quite alright. Your arrival here was a nice break from this town. Haven’t you noticed?” he asked cryptically.

“Noticed what?”

“How cursed this place is. It’s like we all repeat the same day over and over. I swear, the only thing that’s changed is you and your father!”

Virgil huffed. “I’m sure that’s not the case, monsieur.”

The bookkeeper shook his head and tsked. “Well, what brings you back, boy? You were here just yesterday.”

Virgil patted the book he held. “I uh, finished this,” he said, holding the book out for him. The bookkeeper took it with a chuckle. “I was wondering if you had anything new?”

“Since yesterday?” The bookkeeper pushed the book back onto its shelf and laughed. “I’m afraid not.”

“That’s alright, can I just borrow…” Virgil walked over one of the mahogany shelves and ran his fingers over the spine until he stopped on a thick book bound in white. “... this one?”

“Go ahead, boy! You’re my only regular here, after all, and I doubt anyone else is going to bother with that book anyway. In fact, why don’t you keep it?”

“Oh, no, monsieur, I really couldn’t -”

“Take the book, boy! I insist!” The bookkeeper waddled over and shoved the book into Virgil’s chest.

“Oh, okay, thanks -”

“Now, shoo! I was dusting before you disturbed me, you know!” He produced a plumed duster from nowhere and waved it in Virgil’s face.

“Sure, yeah -”

And the next moment, Virgil was booted from the bookstore like a raucous drunk from a bar and shoved onto the quiet street. Virgil looked down at the book in his hands. It was a classic, worn down over the years of being read - mostly by Virgil. The story was your typical play, but it had become something of a comfort in this small town. It was the first story Virgil had picked up when they had arrived.

He meandered down the rickety streets, head hung low as he flipped to the first page. There were fewer people than there were in the marketplace, but it was still enough to make Virgil uneasy. Hopefully, they wouldn’t bother him if he looked like he was reading.

“... so peculiar…”

“... intense, far-off look…”

“... nose stuck in a book…”

“... what a puzzle to…”

_Maybe they’re right,_ Virgil thought. _Maybe I am a weirdo._ But he shook his head clear of the thoughts and focused on his breathing, the steady four-seven-eight pattern Thomas had taught him. Just turn to a light-hearted book when you’re feeling anxious, Thomas would say, so Virgil took his advice.

Rounding the corner into an empty plaza, Virgil sat down on the fountain that served as a centerpiece and began to read in earnest. The trickle of the water behind him set him at ease.

The sun passed by overhead, although it felt like only minutes had passed when truly a couple of hours had. Virgil had just reached his favorite part when in wandered a small flock of sheep. There were around four or five of them, all cute and gravitating towards the fountain. One rested its head on Virgil’s thigh and bayed pitifully, mouth moving for the book. Virgil chuckled and lifted the book out of reach.

“This isn’t a snack, sheep. Besides, I don’t think you’d find a page about a lying prince the most appetizing breakfast.”

“MICHELLE!” A cry came from one of the roads leading to the plaza. An old man, more bent than his crooked cane, limped into the sun breathlessly. “I am so sorry, monsieur, but the sheep just - Oh, it’s you!” The shepherd’s eyes alighted on Virgil for the first time with a slight uneasiness. “You’re the boy who always reads! My, I’ve never seen anyone in this town with such an appetite for books. Except for Michelle here. She’ll eat anything you know - she’s a sheep!”

As if to prove his point, Michelle made another move to eat his book and Virgil tugged it close to his chest, suddenly glaring at the sheep. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Virgil’s bangs blocked the shepherd’s face from his vision, but his foot brushed against the paved stones awkwardly. “Er, yes, I suppose you have.”

A thick silence settled between the two men, one tensed and anxious, the other awkward and wanting his sheep back.

“Well!” The shepherd said. “I’ll just - take Michelle back - “ he put a lead on Michelle, as well as the rest of his flock. “ - and stop bothering you, monsieur. Enjoy your book!” 

Virgil nodded at him with a grunt, the shepherd’s back already turned away from him. As he limped away, Virgil could hear him muttering to Michelle, “... unparalleled beauty… afraid he’s rather odd…”

Virgil sighed, letting the tension leave his shoulders. He had nothing against the shepherd, really - it’s just that social interaction made him uncomfortable. Or perhaps anxious is more suitable. Nervous, maybe. Terrified was definitely a contender.

But the point being was that Virgil quickly left the fountain and headed towards another road, shoulder accidentally bumping against a couple’s. “Sorry,” he muttered, raising the book over his eyes.

“... nothing like the rest of us…” muttered someone.

_Yeah, yeah, different from the rest of you is me, I get it,_ Virgil thought. He made his way through the town, with no particular destination in mind as he read and took in the sights. The town would be beautiful, if Virgil hadn’t been there for nearly six years. Seeing the same cobblestone paths and stark white buildings should have been a comfort, but nothing about the village was home to him. It was the kind of town that Virgil would spend a night at, admiring the architecture, before making his way back home. By now, though, it all irked him. Virgil loved when things remained the same, usually - it meant less anxiety - but the bookkeeper was right. It seemed like nothing changed here. It was enough to drive Virgil crazy.

Oh well. He’d learn to live with it, just like before.

A sharp turn vaulted Virgil back to the marketplace. It had quieted down, which only let the particularly loud villagers be even louder. But what Virgil was focused on wasn’t some lady’s grape kink, it was the three blondes that seemed they would soon fall victim to unconsciousness.

He didn’t know their names. He wasn’t sure if they remembered their own names at this point. What he did know was that those blondes were perhaps the most empty-headed people in this town, save for one special man whom they always followed around like a Cerberian puppy dog. This man, of course, was the pinnacle of assholery, and had the perfect name to go along with it.

“Look, there he goes!” One of the blondes exclaimed.

“Isn’t he dreamy?” They all sighed.

“Monsieur Mitchell -”

“He’s so cute!”

“Be still my heart -”

“I’m hardly breathing!”

“He’s such a tall, dark, strong and handsome brute!” And they all collapsed.

Virgil didn’t mind the blondes. They never tried to cause any trouble for him, though they were just as gossipy as the rest of the village. Who Virgil did mind was Mitchell, and if the blondes were around, that meant he was just around the corner. And -

Virgil turned around just in time to see the brute make his way down the street, his oiled hair shining in the sunlight.

“Shit,” Virgil whispered, before diving into the crowd of shoppers. He wove his way through them, snippets of their conversations reaching his ears.

“You call this bacon?”

“Ten yards!”

“One pound!”

“Excuse me, please let me through!” commanded Mitchell as Virgil reached the end of the street. He quickly turned a corner, back on the route that would lead him home.

“There has got to be more than this,” Virgil groaned. He was tired of it - tired of being judged as the broody misanthrope who didn’t quite fit in, of always having to dodge Mitchell, of everything. He could handle being known as rude and strange - after all, he didn’t really care about the villagers - but to go on like that day after day…

He hated this provincial town, this provincial life, but at the very least, he was free from Mitchell, if only for a moment.

“Ah! Virgil!”

And then that moment ended.

Quicker than light, Virgil had popped open his book and raised it high upon his face, shielding himself from the town heartthrob. Maybe if he just stayed like this, Mitchell would take the hint and leave him alone.

“Reading again I see? You really shouldn’t do that so often, you know - it makes you appear so odd! Besides, it hides your beautiful face.”

Virgil pointedly flipped a page in a book, and if he was flipping anything else, Thomas needn’t know.

“Ah, it must be a good book if you’re that invested. Say, Lefou, are there any pictures in that one?”

If the blondes were the canaries in the coal mine, Lefou was Mitchell’s shadow. At this point, no one knew their real name; they had always been called Lefou by Mitchell, so that was what they were known as. They were dressed in colors Virgil personally found stylish - black and grey. A skirt descended to their knees over their black stockings, and they wore a tunic over a grey shirt. They were quiet, clearly in love with Mitchell, and hopeless. 

Lefou muttered, “I don’t know how to read,” to Mitchell, who made a displeased humph.

“Remind me why I keep you around again?”

Virgil carefully walked around the two and slunk deeper into his shirt. He was nearly in the clear when he was suddenly yanked back by a strong, muscular arm.

“Don’t worry Virgil! I haven’t forgotten about you.” Mitchell set him down and instead snatched Virgil’s book right out of his hands.

“Mitchell,” Virgil hissed, “give it back.”

“Finally acknowledging me, are we? Say, there AREN’T any pictures in this!” Mitchell flung the book over his shoulder, where it landed in a muddy indent made by a horse. Virgil made a move to get it, but one solid arm flung out by Mitchell stopped him. “Come on now, Virgil, I feel like you never talk to me.”

Virgil glared straight into Mitchell’s crystal blue eyes. “I don’t talk to anyone, Mitchell. Especially idiots like you.”

Mitchell put a hand delicately over his own heart. “Now Virgil, you wound me. But then again, that seems to be one of your favorite past times, hasn’t it?”

“Give me my book back Mitchell or I’ll kick you in the place no one wants to be kicked in.”

Mitchell stood aside for that, eyes widening only slightly. He still had on that patronizing smile that spoke volumes of what he thought of Virgil. “Such a handsome man shouldn’t say such uncouth things! Especially to their future husband.”

Virgil marched over and picked up his book, brushing the mud off of it. “Mitchell, if every man in the world was dead besides you, I still wouldn’t marry you.”

Mitchell let out a booming laugh. “Oh please, Virgil, how funny you are! Are you saying you’d rather lay with beasts than me? The most handsome man in all of France?”

Virgil hissed at Mitchell through a scowl, backing slowly towards his house. “You aren’t good enough for me, Mitchell.”

“Hey! Mitchell is enough of a man for everybody! You should be lucky he’s courting you.” Lefou spoke up, and then immediately looked surprised at their own daring. Mitchell looked at Lefou in shock before patting his friend on the back with such gusto Lefou stumbled forward.

“You see! Lefou understands, and if they can, then surely a well-read gentleman such as yourself could as well.”

“Understand this, Mitchell,” Virgil spat out. “Leave. Me. Alone.” And before the pair could say another word, Virgil was walking back up the road, ignoring Mitchell’s cries for attention.

“I will have him for my husband, Lefou,” Mitchell confided in them. His eyes switched from Virgil’s fleeting form to his own reflection in a window, and he began to primp and preen. “In this town, only he can match me in beauty, which makes him the best! Besides me, of course.”

“Mitchell, anyone would be a fool to turn you down. I’m sure that the right person is waiting for you. Maybe they’re standing right next to you!” Lefou said, standing right next to him.

“No,” Mitchell said. “Virgil is the only one for me. And by heaven, I shall have him!”

The man in question, however, had just locked his front door behind him, leaning against it with a sigh. He had his book clutched to his chest like a child holding a blanket. A deeper sigh.

“Thomas!” Virgil called out, pushing up from the door and making his way towards the living room. The house he and Thomas had got was small, with two bedrooms, a conjoined kitchen and living room, and a basement with two access points - one inside the house and one outside, near the chicken coops. It was homely, made of wood, and jarringly different from their old home in Paris. But they had lived there for around seven years, so it was at least familiar.

Virgil stepped over a creaky plank in the house and peered around. Thomas wasn’t in sight, which meant that he must be in the basement, working on his latest project.

Virgil crossed the room to a trapdoor, pulled it open, and made his way down a rickety ladder. He landed with a soft thud on some loose hay that had been there for an unknown period of time.

“Virgil!” Virgil whirled around and came face to face what any would consider a crazy person. It was a man in middle age, with brown hair, fair skin, and sweet brown eyes. That alone would not be off-putting. But the man was covered in soot, strange goggles were worn across his eyes, and a tattered, stained apron was wrapped around him as he was elbows deep in some strange, foreign contraption.

“Hey, Thomas. I figured you were in here.” He wandered closer to him, book still in hand. “How’s it going?”

“I still haven’t cracked it yet! I swear, this captured imaging device will be the death of me.”

Thomas was an odd man, to say the least. Most would have pursued a career in something sensible, like shoemaking or leatherworking, but Thomas instead opted for something with the least amount of job stability - a storyteller and amateur inventor.

Virgil bit back what he really wanted to say, instead sitting on one of the cluttered desks in the basement with a sigh. Thomas extracted his arms from the machine at that, giving Virgil an all too familiar look. “I know that sigh, Virge. What is it?”

“Well, just -” Virgil took a deep breath. “I don’t want to be a downer and all, but what if this never works? We’d have just wasted our time and money for nothing.”

“That could be,” Thomas said, unhelpfully. “But I believe it will work, Virgil. I’ve still got to try, right?” With a smile, Thomas proceeded to shove not his arms, but his face into the machine, supposedly looking around at its inner workings. “I always appreciate your take on a situation, Virgil. You provide an interesting perspective.”

An interesting perspective sounded like something no one wanted, but Virgil bit back the comment and grunted. “Well, if anyone could make this work, it’d be you,” Virgil tried.

Virgil didn’t have to see Thomas’s face to know it had broken into a smile; he could hear it in his voice. “Aw, thanks Virge. You’re sweet.”

“Don’t say that, I have a reputation to maintain,” Virgil grumbled, a small smile on his lips.

“Oh, I doubt that’ll be going anywhere anytime soon!” Thomas’ voice was distorted from the contraption’s belly. “You can be pretty scary if you don’t know you!”

“Sometimes I just gotta be me...nuh,” Virgil smirked. Thomas laughed at that.

“Enjoy the town today?”

“Eh. It was the same as always. I got a book from the bookkeeper.”

“Oh good! What is it?”

“Hamlet.”

“Again? Virge, that’s got to be the third time you’ve read it!”

“Yeah, but what can I say. It speaks to me.”

There was a jolly laugh from inside the machine and Virgil rolled his eyes. 

“Mitchell give you any trouble today?”

“What do you think?”

There was a small tinkering noise before Thomas replied. “He really is persistent huh?”

“Unfortunately.” Virgil slid off the desk and began to pace around the room.

“At least he’s good looking?” Thomas tried.

Good looking was all Mitchell had going for him, in Virgil’s opinion. He was tall, nearly as tall as Virgil when he wasn’t slouching, with glossy black hair and defined musculature. He had fair skin and soft, baby blue eyes that clashed with his manly attitude and hairy body. His dress sense was fashionable, and his teeth were perfectly straight. That, however, was where all good things about Mitchell ended. A rock could beat that man at chess, and a toad had a more sightly personality than him. He was a self-important and vain oaf that only cared about himself.

Thomas sighed as Virgil relayed this to him, until eventually he extracted himself from his yet-to-work invention to give Virgil a pat on the back. “I’m sorry, Virge. He’s an awful guy.”

“He thinks you’re crazy, you know.”

Thomas chuckled at that. “I think half the town does by now. At least they like my stories, though.” Thomas gestured towards the puppets that sat on a corner desk. They were all made by Thomas himself, and each was unique in its design. Amongst them were a dragon, a knight, an enchantress, a wolf, and a musician. There were more hidden in the trunk upstairs, but these were the town favorites. Everyone always gathered around and paid a pretty coin when they heard that the knight was going to slay the dragon.

That wasn’t Virgil’s favorite tale. He much preferred the story of the musician charming the wolves, in which he could pretend that he was hearing a true musician play. But it wasn’t a crowd favorite, so Virgil rarely got to hear that story anymore.

The pair made their way upstairs and Thomas began to make some tea. Virgil took himself and his book and sat down at the table. “Do you think it’ll be ready by tomorrow?”

Thomas looked up at him, eyebrows furrowing before shooting up in comprehension. “Oh, the captured imaging device! Yeah, I think I’ll have cracked it by then.” Thomas checked the water before preparing the tea leaves. “You know, if I do get it to work by the time I go to the fair tomorrow, we’re going to win the contest. Do you know what that means?”

Virgil didn’t want to think about what that meant. It was too good to be true, and he didn’t want to start hoping only to be let down.

Thomas answered the question for him. “It means we’re going to be rich, Virge! We can finally move back to Paris!”

Ah. That one statement had all of Virgil’s dreams. Sure, Paris was loud and noisy and big, but Virgil knew it, intimately. He knew the streets and the shops and how things were done there. No matter how long he stayed in this town, he would never fit in. He would always be “scary.” He would always be…

“Thomas, do you think I’m odd?”

Thomas turned to look at him strangely. “Now that was a conversation changer. No, Virgil, I don’t think you’re odd. Or scary, for the matter.”

Virgil grumbled at that.

“But then again, I’ve known you since you were six! I mean, I watched you grow up! Those people out there,” Thomas waves a hand towards the door, “they don’t understand you. They don’t try to, Virgil. And yeah sure, you can be a pretty scary guy sometimes. But I know why you act like that. They don’t. So don’t let them get you down, okay Virge? Besides,” Thomas took the kettle off the fire and poured the water into cups. “We’re almost out of this town anyways! Tomorrow I’ll bring the captured imaging device to the inventor’s faire, win the competition, get the money, and bring us back to Paris! I’ll even kick out those bi- I mean, those other storytellers too.” Thomas put the leaves in and set one cup down in front of Virgil, the other in front of himself. Virgil smiled, just softly. “I mean, who are they to steal my turf?”

Thomas began another rant about how hard it was in the storytelling business, and Virgil half-listened to him. The other half of him was occupied with how much that, despite everything, he was okay in this moment.

And then that moment ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: *has virgil refer to himself as a weirdo ONCE*  
> me: is this a reference to creep by radiohead
> 
> I don't think there were any content warnings, let me know if I missed any!
> 
> OKAY YES, I didn't post this Friday BUT I had a good reason to. I will definitely post the next update this Friday! I have nothing at all that can interfere with it. Anyways, let me know what you think! This was mostly just to establish the world and Virgil's feelings about the town and his motivations. Was there foreshadowing? Yeah. Tell me if you think they are in character or not. By the way, Virgil is Persian in this AU as a nod to the opera this is named after. Please comment if you liked this! I live for it.
> 
> P.S: Catch the Tangled reference.


	3. The Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: None

The next morning had Thomas astride their horse, a wagon containing the captured imaging device attached. The sun had only just risen, painting the home in a delicate shade of gold. Next to Virgil, the chickens began to cluck from inside their cage.

“Anything you want from the fair?” Thomas asked Virgil.

“Nah, I’m good.”

Thomas deflated for a second, and Virgil instantly felt guilty.

“Actually -” he began, looking around the scenery for an idea. “I would really like a - an - er -” His eyes caught on a rose bush. “A rose!”

Thomas stared at him. He looked to his right. “Virgil, there’s a rose bush right there.”

“Oh wow! I - I never knew.”

Thomas smiled at him. “Okay, Virge. I’ll get you a bouquet.”

“No! A single rose is good.”

“You sure?”

“Yes - yeah.”

“Alright.” Thomas looked out to the forest, a hopeful look in his eyes. He looked like a seasoned knight about to venture to find a dragon, not a humble storyteller trying to win a stupid fair contest. “I’ll see you in a couple days Virgil.”

“See you then.”

“I love you.”

Virgil shifted his weight between his feet, smiling despite himself. “Alright, let’s not get mushy.”

Thomas shot him a disparaging look only broken by his smile. “Virgil…”

Virgil sighed. “Fine. I love you too,” he grumbled.

Thomas perked up. “Don’t forget to feed the chickens!” he said as he kicked his heels against Sacagawea, who began to move forward with only the smallest lethargy.

“I never do!” Virgil called after him. He watched Thomas disappear into the woods.

Then a chicken shat on his shoe.

“It’s gonna be a long two days,” Virgil mumbled.

After scrubbing his shoe clean, Virgil entered the town, just slightly later than usual. The typical choruses of “BONJOUR!” rang out around him, and Virgil fought the urge to hiss in public. A woman came up to him holding some cheese and Virgil glared so strongly that she instantly backed away, her smile slipping off her face like snow melting in summer.

Its days like these, which was every day, that Virgil wondered why he even bothered to come into town. And he had finally decided on an answer; even the monotony of this village was better than staying inside that tiny little house all alone as Thomas was out storytelling or inventing or tending to the chickens. Besides, going to town had been his routine for seven years, he wasn’t about to break it. Virgil loved being alone, but staring at the same four walls would drive Virgil insane. At least in town he got to pet sheep.

Virgil had meandered over to a fountain again, and propped open Hamlet. Since he now owned the book, Virgil was taking his time reading it, dwelling on each word. To himself he mouthed, “Foul deeds will rise, though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.”

The sun rose to its peak position in the sky, and Virgil was still reading. No one had walked to this corner of the village yet. Perhaps Virgil should visit this fountain more often, if the people were so scarce. 

At this time Virgil had had enough of the sun though, so he rose, carefully closing his book around his thumb to save his page, and began to walk through a quiet alleyway. Unfortunately, there were no sheep to pet on the way, and though Virgil would never have admitted it, he almost missed Michelle’s comforting weight. Maybe if Thomas lost the contest and the two had to stay in town, Virgil could talk to him about starting a flock.

The contest. Virgil had avoided thinking about it since this morning, as he was well versed in avoiding his problems. But as it resurfaced, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind, the all-too familiar constriction of anxiety settled about him. His fingers began to tap against his book in a rushed, uncoordinated pattern.

Not soon enough, the familiar wooden home came into view. Virgil walked up to it, eyes glancing at the chickens. They would need to be fed soon. Why chickens? Virgil wondered. Anything but chickens.

Virgil slammed the door behind him, sighing as the sight of the empty house. Virgil walked over to the kettle, putting his book down on the table, and started some tea. After tea, Virgil decided, he would feed the chickens and then wait for the sun to go down. He had nothing else to do.

A cup of tea later, Virgil was reading one of Ophelia’s monologues when there was a knock at the door. For a moment, Virgil thought that Thomas was back, but that hope quickly dissipated as he remembered where Thomas was at - the place that shall not be named because Virgil really didn’t want to think about how his entire future is riding on a stupid fair contest.

For a second, Virgil pondered going over to the peephole and seeing who was there, but decided against it. He’d just wait out whoever was there out by pretending no one was home. 

Content in his plan, Virgil quietly turned the page. He wanted to go and get another cup of tea, but he stayed put in case whoever was at the door would hear him moving about.

Yet apparently that didn’t matter, because the knocking began again, but this time louder, and more persistent. Virgil once again ignored it, biting back a groan. With knocking that heavy, they could break down the damn door!

There was a blessed moment of quiet, and then the knocking picked up again, reaching its peak volume. With a hiss, Virgil forcibly stood up, stomping over to the door and looking out through the peephole.

What was on the other side of the wood was a true monster. A relentless, braindead moron. It was Mitchell.

“No one’s home!” Virgil shouted, arms crossed.

Virgil had already removed himself from the peephole, but he could feel the smug smile through the door. “Oh Virgil! It is a gift to be able to hear your voice!” Mitchell knocked again, and this time, the door genuinely creaked on its hinges. If Mitchell kept it up, the door would break, and no one in town would care. After all, it would only be a sign of Mitchell’s impressive strength.

A smirk settled on Virgil’s face as an idea of pre-emptive vengeance crept forward, his hand on the door handle. He waited, timing it perfectly, and as soon as he got the rhythm of Mitchell’s knocking down, he struck.

On a beat of preparatory silence, Virgil flung the door inward. Mitchell, unsuspecting of the action, stumbled forward, raised fist and momentum propelling him neatly to the floor. Virgil glared down at the idiot, who had landed in a pile at his feet.

“What do you want, Mitchell?” he hissed.

Mitchell pulled himself up with a surprising amount of dignity, running his thick fingers through his hair. He shut the door behind him. “Well, Virgil, I didn’t see you in the town today. I had just missed the second most beautiful man in the village. Number one is me, of course.” Mitchell looked around the house. “You live like this?” he asked, eyebrows scrunched up disbelievingly. 

Virgil glared. “Yes. Now pardon me for not believing you, but why are you actually here, Mitchell?”

Mitchell gave him a shiny smile and sauntered forward in the room, his eyes sweeping the wooden walls and ceilings. “You know, it is a bit rickety, but I guess this is the best the son of a pauper could afford, right?”

Virgil stayed at his place by the door and kept silent. His arms were crossed over his chest.

“Oh, very well, Virgil, you caught me,” Mitchell admitted with a sigh. “Although I truly did miss you this morning, I must admit, my reasons for coming here aren’t what they seem.” Mitchell turned towards him with a twirl, blue eyes sparkling with a desire Virgil didn’t trust. “Now Virgil, as you know, I am the most eligible bachelor in town -”

Oh no. Virgil didn’t like this. Why did he let the bastard in?

“- and as such, I deserve the best - and ONLY the best! And the best, of course, is you, Virgil.” Mitchell said all of this to a mirror, checking his teeth idly in the reflection. “With your dark hair and eyes and your unmarked skin. You look like a very attractive elf or fairy or… something.” He had leaned into the mirror so his nose was just barely touching it, fingers brushing through his eyebrows. He stayed like that for a moment, and Virgil contemplated walking out the front door. Just as his hand reached the handle, however, Mitchell awoke from his reverie and smiled. “Where was I?” he asked, turning to Virgil.

Virgil stayed silent.

“Ah, yes.” Mitchell proceeded, confidence unwavering. “I am here, Virgil, to ask for your hand in marriage.”

There it was. The thing Virgil dreaded most. Nevermind having to stay in this stupid town, but having to be Mitchell’s husband? That was a living nightmare.

“No.” Virgil said.

Mitchell didn’t appear to have heard however, and he wandered over to the table by the kitchen, taking a seat on one of the chairs. “Just imagine it, Virge -”

“Don’t call me Virge.”

“- you, me, and all the little ones playing with the dogs.”

Virgil’s eyebrows scrunched up. Little ones? Did Mitchell know where babies came from or -

“We’ll have six or seven, I think,” Mitchell said idly as he removed his shoes and propped his feet up on the table, right on top of Virgil’s book.

Virgil’s mouth went dry. “Wha - six or seven what? Dogs?” he asked, hopefully, like a fool.

“Children of course!” Mitchell said with a grin, and Virgil fought the urge to yank the chair out from under him. Instead Virgil swiftly moved forward and knocked Mitchell’s feet off of his book, dusting it off and putting it on the counter.

Mitchell took it all in stride, swinging himself into a standing position so he was leaning over Virgil.

“What do you say, Virge? I already know the answer of course. Who would deny me?”

Quietly, Virgil thought this was all rather ridiculous. How many times does Virgil have to make it clear he hated Mitchell’s guts and wouldn’t mind it if the Angel of Death took his soul? But the biggest part of Virgil, the anxious part of Virgil, backed away, eyes cold as a graveyard on a moonless night, and maneuvered back to the door. Mitchell followed, going on about something - marriage vows? Locations? Priests? Virgil didn’t know or care.

“Listen, Mitchell,” Virgil interrupted, slowly approaching his destination. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, but, honestly -” Virgil’s hands touched the blessed door handle. Mitchell leaned in closer, eyes lidded and confident. “You just aren’t my type.”

With that, Virgil swung the door inside and Mitchell fell forward, tripping over his unshoed feet and falling in a mud puddle. Virgil rushed back to the table, picked up the shoes, and tossed them as far as he could. Just as some music started playing, Virgil closed the door and leaned against it, heart hammering. As soon as his heart stopped racing, he stood, more than slightly smug, and set another pot of tea on the fire. He had earned it, after all.

On the other side of the door, Mitchell was spitting mud directly into Lefou’s face, who was hastily ordering the band to stop, who was in the beginning of the wedding march, which only added to the irony of the whole situation. But eventually, after Mitchell threw some mud at a guitar player, the music ceased, much to the discontent of the onlookers. Mitchell himself was very discontented. Mud soaked his skin, clumps of it sticking to his hair, and his finest red shirt was ruined. He was glowering, all of his muscles and veins popping, the light catching in feral blue eyes and shiny teeth. With a single hand, Mitchell picked up Lefou, who was wiping mud from their eyes, and pulled them up until they were level with his face.

“I will have Virgil for my husband, Lefou,” he growled. Lefou, shaking slightly, nodded.

“Of c-course, Mitchell,” they said, eyes fixated on the ground. Mitchell dropped them, cutting a path through the shocked crowd, who were already murmuring about the most exciting events that had ever happened in that town. Lefou themself was left curled up on the ground, arms wrapped around their knees, still shaking.

Any storyteller worth their puppets would tell you that a story beginning in the woods is one of the most overused cliches of the times. Over and over the trope was used, from genres of horror to romance, to comedy to drama, to folk to fable. It was of a most predictable plot, and therefore, few storytellers feared the woods, despite what the cautionary tales of Little Red Riding Hood would tell. So it was with this mindset that Thomas rode into the woods near the village, quietly humming a Parisian tune.

For those of a different career path, perhaps the woods would be worthy of a good scare. The trees were tall and dark, letting little sunlight into the woods, although some still filtered in, lighting up the path with diamonds of golden light. There were small sounds of life. Birds chirped above them, and occasionally a bush shook, which would have startled some, but didn’t surprise Thomas, as he expected the squirrel that soon ran out of it.

Thomas trotted forward on his horse, one hand loosely grabbing the reins, the other patting Sacagawea mindlessly. He continued on in this path for a good while, until he came to a fork in the road.

One road, veering right, had the same air as the rest of the woods. The trees were perhaps a bit thinner, accommodating more sun onto the path. As Thomas and Sacagawea watched, a squirrel shot across the path, its bushy tail streamlining behind it.

The other road was different. This one was lined with trees that swallowed all light. The path was overgrown, as if it hadn’t been used in a long, long time, and from its mouth the silence was present. Even as birds chirped above Thomas, the silence emanating from that path seemed to scream over it.

“Well,” Thomas began, looking to-and-fro from each path. “The fair is in the west, so -” he tugged Sacagawea towards the left. Sacagawea didn’t move. Because she was not a storyteller, she didn’t have the same disregard for overused cliches as Thomas had. She was more sensible, and as such, did not easily submit to travelling down the dark and foreboding path.

Thomas didn’t pay much attention to his horse’s unease, however, and clicked his heels into her sides impatiently, clucking at her. Slowly, Sacagawea moved forward, setting off down the dark, shadowy path.

And, with a cruel irony, it was that moment in the woods that was the beginning of everything. Perhaps cliches were based in fact after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm proud of myself for sticking to this schedule, honestly. Anyways, tell me if I missed any content warnings and please leave a comment if you liked it! See you next week :)


	4. Into the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Blood, non-graphic violence

_“By the light of the moon, my friend Pierrot, lend me your quill._

__

__

_“To write a word, my candle is dead._

__

__

_I have no light left.”_

Thomas hummed “Au Clair de la Lune” as Sacagawea ambled on the path, her ears flickering about. They had been on the path for well over a few hours, and besides the occasional dead bird, nothing out of the ordinary happened. The road was harder to travel by, with plants invading at its edges and too many stones in the center. It must not have been used in several years, Thomas thought. Who had originally maintained it?

He cast his eyes about, looking for some hint as to who had managed the road. As a storyteller, it was his instinct to find a story in everything, even in an abandoned pathway. But any clue had been eroded away by the years, it seemed, so Thomas gave up. Instead he took up a new question: Why was it abandoned?

This one was answered almost as soon as it was asked. As the wagon was jostled by a particularly large rock, a large, white body jumped into the road. Its eyes gleamed like hellfire, its teeth bared in a snarl. The wolf tilted its head back, exposing the red stains on the underside of its maw, and let out a long, cold howl.

Chaos erupted. Sacagawea reared upward, her feet stamping down. Thomas leaned forward, grabbing the mare’s mane, a scream bolting out of him. 

And then it got so much worse.

Six more wolves shot from the trees like arrows, all aiming to bite at Sacagawea’s heels. Sacagawea galloped forward, stomping over the wolf in her way, leaving Thomas to cling on. The wolves kept pace with them, flanking her on each side. One leapt up and sank its teeth into her hindquarters. Sacagawea neighed and bucked, one part of the wagon becoming unhinged. Thomas kicked at it until the wolf slid off, trampled by the rest of its pack.

The bumpy road left Thomas jolting up and down from his place on Sacagawea’s back until he tilted forward and buried his face in her mane. Howls scratched at his ears, and he felt teeth sink into his boot. Thomas kicked again until the boot slipped off his foot. There was a loud crash behind them. Thomas didn’t look up.

The only thing Thomas could hear was the sound of Sacagawea’s hooves and the unrelenting paws of the predators. Until it stopped. Until everything stopped.

Sacagawea came to a thundering halt, Thomas flying forward onto her neck. He clung to her like a burr, slowly sliding back onto her back. He stayed hunched over, eyes closed, breath bated. There was no sound. The only sensation was the sense of something warm and wet dripping onto his pant leg.

He stayed like that for a few minutes, until he could bring himself to open his eyes.

When he did, he and Sacagawea were alone. The wagon must have fallen off, because it was nowhere in sight. Neither were the wolves. Something must have scared them off, Thomas realized, and that thought filled him with ice.

Slowly, like a statue coming to life, he moved his head down to his leg. The wet thing he had felt was Sacagawea’s blood, hitting his calf rhythmically.

That was what jolted Thomas back into action. As smoothly as he could, Thomas slid off of his horse, landing heavily on his bottom. His legs were shaking, but he forced himself into a standing position, grabbing Sacagawea’s reins after he stood. With the quietest of clicks, he nudged Sacagawea forward. They set off down the path once again.

Not ten minutes later something began to come into focus. It was a large, looming gate of black metal, rusting in its crevices. Sharp spikes adorned the top of the fence, and rose plants grew on the fence, lacing it, the red petals blooming like blood.

Sacagawea bucked wildly, yanking her reins out of Thomas’ hands and darting back down the path. Thomas swallowed.

If Sacagawea was more scared of this place than wolves, maybe Thomas shouldn’t enter.

But the gate was open, so Thomas did.

Besides, he needed a place to rest for the night. Surely nothing bad could happen overnight. Right?

A castle soon loomed into view through the fog. It became apparent Thomas was standing on a long, stone bridge, with pave stones crumbling by the force of time. The castle itself was a cold and lonely black, with deep red accents and roofs. Towers jutted into the sky, large gargoyles sneering down to the earth. On either side of the bridge was a steep drop into what seemed like pitch black.

The door of the castle was made of deep mahogany. It was easily ten feet wide and probably twice as high, if Thomas had to guess. His hand reached for the iron handle, and, with a little twist, it opened.

Inside, it was dark. The vestibule was mostly barren, and opened up towards a staircase and other, larger rooms that Thomas couldn’t identify the purpose of. There were sconces in the stone walls, but none were lit save for a single candelabrum next to a small wooden clock. Thomas sneezed.

In the back of his mind, Thomas heard a voice telling him he was probably going to get a cold. It’s not our problem, another voice said to him. Let’s just wait until he leaves, it continued.

“... have been so bored…”

“... don’t actually care, Remy…”

Wait. This was a conversation happening outside his head.

“Who’s there?” Thomas called, voice loud but unsteady. It seemed to ring out through the castle.

“You know, I think I’m going to talk to him.”

“As regent, I order you to not. No, Remy, stop. Don’t -” A sigh, followed by a crash.

Thomas whirled around to find the candelabrum on the carpet. Briefly, he was concerned that its flames might set the carpet on fire. Then the candelabrum turned itself face up - because yes, it had a face - and Thomas began to shriek.

“Ah, now look what you’ve done, Remy. He’s screaming, you made him scream,” the clock said, with its clock mouth as it blinked its clock eyes and crossed its clock arms.

“Oh my god he would have done it anyway! Jeez Lo, you are just so critical of me, when all I do is -”

“Exactly what you want? Is that what you were going to say? You do exactly what you want? Because that is the only, and I mean only, acceptable end to that sentence.”

“I mean, if you’re not having fun -”

“Of course I’m not having fun Remy. I’m a clock.”

“You’re a CLOCK!” Thomas screeched.

The clock looked at him. “Yes,” it confirmed.

“And you’re a CANDLESTICK!”

“Excuse you, I am a candelabrum, how dare you,” the candelabrum said, one of its candlesticks placed over where its human heart would be.

“I understand that this must be a shock,” the clock said, “but do try to be quiet. The master of this house has the temper of a toddler.”

Suddenly the darkness of the castle seemed much thicker. Thomas cast a wary eye around, sobered from his shock. “So I’m not alone,” he muttered.

“Obviously not. Remy and I are here.”

Thomas looked down at the candelabrum. “That’s your name? Remy?”

“Uh, yeah, and the stick in the mud is Logan.”

“Firstly, my name is King Regent Logan Croftsworth, sole heir of the Croftsworth family, mentored by the Three Brothers of Giza, the youngest appointee of the Royal Court and the mentor to the prince. Secondly, I am not a stick in the mud. I’m a clock.”

“Whatever Croftsworth,” Remy said, plopping himself onto his base and brushing himself off with his flames. His eyes widened in indignation when Thomas seized him.

“How dare you! Have you never heard of consent?” Remy asked as Thomas twisted him around, his finger coming closer to Remy’s eyes. Remy took one of his candles and burned him.

“OW!” Thomas jumped, dropping Remy to the floor.

“That’s what you get for playing with fire,” Remy said, sitting up.

“I’m sorry, It’s just - I’ve never met objects that talk before!” 

“Well of course not, “ said King Regent Logan Croftsworth, sole heir to the Croftsworth family, mentored by the Three Brothers of Giza, youngest appointee of the Royal Court and the mentor to the prince. “I’d be very curious if you had.”

“Well, I’m very curious!” Thomas said. “How - why - wh-wha- whaACHOO!”

“Look Lo, did I not tell you,” Remy said, pointing at Thomas. “He’s going to get a cold. What’s the harm in giving him a little rest by the fire?”

“Remy, you know exactly what the harm is. Besides, don’t try to fool me. The only reason you want him to stay is because he is the first person to enter this castle in years and you’re bored.”

“Well, duh, Croftsworth, but you can’t lie that I don’t have a point. Besides, do you know what Patton would say if he heard you kicked an innocent merchant -”  
“Storyteller.”

“- out into the woods?”

Logan narrowed his eyes at this before sighing. “Fine. I will support this endeavor, if only for my own consciousness’ sake.”

Remy smiled smugly, if that was possible on a candelabrum, and started hopping into a room on the right. “Follow me darling - if you want to live, of course.”  
Thomas looked to Logan, who just stared back at him with an unreadable expression. Slowly, Thomas followed after Remy.

It turns out that, despite the stone walls and Gothic-baroque decorum, the room Remy led him to was surprisingly cozy. It was large by Thomas’ standards, but small for a castle, he supposed. It looked like a dining room that hadn’t been used in a while, judging by the dust that had accumulated on the dinner table and its chairs. The only thing in the room that seemed lived in was a single red chair, high-backed, on top of a rug facing the fireplace. Remy ushered him into the chair and lit the fire with himself. Logan had disappeared, and Thomas didn’t want to ask.

“So, Remy…”

“What - wait. I don’t even know your name!”

“Oh, it’s Thomas.”

“Thomas. Say, you aren’t a young, hot, eligible bachelor, are you?”

“Well, I’m not so young anymore, I suppose. And to be honest, I’m not really looking to date.”

Remy frowned. “Well if you’re going to barge into the castle, at least be useful, darling!”

“Yeah, about the castle. King Regent -”

“No one calls him that Tommy. Just say Logan.”

Thomas grimaced at the nickname. “Okay. Well, Logan mentioned the master of the castle having a temper and stuff. Should I be, I don’t know, scared?”

Remy tilted back his candlesticks and laughed. “Scared? Oh no honey, what’s the use of fear? If the master decided he wanted you dead, you’d be killed before you could run!”

Thomas simply stared at Remy. Remy, after tiring himself out from laughing, noticed and rolled his eyes. “Relax, Tommy. I’ve known the master since he was a baby. Sure, he’s got anger management issues and the worst case of self-pity I have ever seen, but it’s more likely that he’d drown you with his tears than tear you up with his claws.”

“Claws? Did you say - claws?” 

“Why are his eyes like that?” Logan asked, hopping into view. One clock arm was raised at Thomas’ wide eyes, the firelight catching on them. “What did you do now, Remy?”

“I was just telling him about the master.”

“Ah the master. I assume you mean the master of this castle, who always sits in that chair? Are you sitting the merchant -”

“Storyteller.”

“- in the master’s chair? Are you that brainless?”

“Well, he doesn’t really have a brain, Lo! He’s a candlestick!” A cart slid forward on Thomas’ right, contained a talking teapot and a small teacup that stared at him without a care.

“Excuse me, I am a candelabrum!”

“This - I’m in the master’s chair?” Thomas asked Logan, who nodded apathetically. Thomas sprang from his seat.

“Candlestick, candelabrum, what’s the difference Rem?”

“How dare you. A candelabrum has multiple candles, while a candlestick only has one. This curse did not turn me into a pathetic candlestick, Patton!”

“There’s a curse?” Thomas asked Logan. Logan stared at him and didn’t reply.

“Now now Remy, there are some candlesticks who would not appreciate being called pathetic. We wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings!”

“WHAT IS GOING ON?” Thomas yelled, forgetting for a moment Logan’s warning.

Patton the teapot, turned to him and hushed him. “Shh! We wouldn’t want to wake up the master now, would we?”

“I don’t know, would we?” Logan asked, who seemed rather tired of everything. “Now tell me Remy, why did you tell him about the master?”

“And what is his name?” Patton asked.

“Tommy -”

“Thomas,” Thomas corrected Remy.

“- and in case you forgot, Logan, you brought up the master in the first place.”

“For a simple warning. You seemed to have indulged him. As the regent, I order you to - how is it said in today’s language? - shut up.”

Remy gasped, offended, and Thomas sipped the tea that Patton had poured for him.

“Hey! That tickles!” said the teacup, and Thomas was so startled that he almost dropped it.

“Be careful now! If you drop Kai he will definitely stab your toes,” Patton said.

“Oh! Er, sorry Kai.”

“It’s fine. Now just drink me so I can be done with this.”

“And sit down, kiddo!” Patton implored. “I know it’s the master’s chair and all, but he won’t mind!”

“Really? Because Remy mentioned claws and killing so -”

“Remy just doesn’t understand the master.”

“Okay well, his facial expressions are very different since he’s, you know -” he made a gesture everyone but Thomas understood.

“Go on, sit down!” Patton urged, and gave a small woop when Thomas did.

“So… about this master -”

“No,” Logan said, with much more authority than should have been possible for a clock. “There is no need for you to know about the master. Besides, he’s not the one in charge - I am. Therefore, I will allow you to rest in this castle for one night, but you must be gone by sunrise. Any and all questions about the master of this house is forbidden.”

“Only one night?” Patton whined. “Look at him Lo - he’s so pale! He could die out there!”

“One night will be enough rest for him, I am sure.”

“Okay but he’s literally the first person we have talked to in years and you cannot take this away from me. I have been bored for too long, Logan!” Remy cried.  
“I don’t care.” Logan turned to Thomas. “Follow me. I will lead you to your residency.”

Thomas had watched this all quietly, eyes flickering about. “Okay, but can I ask just one question about -”

“No.”

“Yes,” Patton said, giving Logan a chiding look. Logan relented with a sigh.

“Will he mind? You know, me resting here for the night?”

His eyes were on Logan, and after a pause he answered. “The master is not the threat that Remy has made him out to be. You have no reason to fear him, as long as you do what I say. If all goes well, you will never even see him.”

And Thomas didn’t, as he was led to a comfortable bedroom. Sometimes the shadows seemed thicker, but he refused to look at them. Instead he followed the clock silently, into the bowels of the castle, and laid down on a queen size bed. When sleep came for him, it was merciless.

Next morning began as expected as it could have been. Thomas was awoken by Logan yelling at him from the table. For a moment, suspecting it was all a dream, Thomas simply swatted him to the floor and rolled over. It wasn’t until he was slapped by a clock that Thomas remembered his surroundings.

“I’m so sorry, Logan! I just -”

“It’s fine. Though do try to not slap me for the rest of your stay here.”

Patton rolled in on a tray, feeding him breakfast and tea from the same teacup as before. Then Logan and Remy escorted him to the door. Just as Thomas was about to close it behind him, Logan spoke.

“It would be wise of you to never recount this place. If you do, destruction will be wrought upon you and your family.”

Thomas blanched. “Thanks for the…”

“Warning. This is a warning, Thomas. Never speak of this place, nor seek it out. If anything, just pretend this was all a very strange dream.”

“I’ve dreamt stranger things,” Thomas whispered.

The door closed behind him with an air of finality, and Thomas made his way to the gate.

On his way, Thomas thought about a lot of things. He thought about Sacagawea, and if she had made it home safe. He thought about the captured imaging device, and if he would be able to find it again. He wondered if he ever would return to this strange castle, and understand everything. But mostly Thomas thought about Virgil, and how heartbroken he was going to be when he realized that they were going to stay in that town forever.

That reminded Thomas of Virgil’s request - a single rose. Thomas had arrived at the gate and stopped, looking at it. It stretched out on either side, far and wide, outlining the castle grounds. The entire thing was woven with brilliant red roses. The one closest to Thomas was in full bloom.

Thomas carefully plucked it from its place on the gate, and brought it up to his eye. This would do nicely for Virgil, Thomas thought. Then, like a cloud was covering the sun, Thomas was engulfed in a shadow. He dared not look behind him, but from the corner of his eye he saw the outline of claws.

“How DARE you steal from my castle…” a voice said, inhuman and low, dragging on the earth. “You wish to enjoy MY things? Take MY roses? Then you may have all the pain and suffering that this comes with.” Something struck Thomas’ head from behind, and before the fear and pain could truly set in, he was falling, unconscious before he hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woop! We're getting there folks! I think in the next chapter is when things really start going, so yay! As always, please comment if you enjoyed! See you next week :)
> 
> P.S: Spot the Robert Frost and the Stephen Sondheim reference.


	5. A Bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Blood, Imprisonment

It took too long for the wedding procession to clear away, Virgil observed with disgust. But soon enough the house was alone again, so Virgil picked up a pail and went outside.

The chickens were clucking at him angrily, one pecking at his leg. “Shoo,” Virgil said. “I already had to deal with one asshole today, I don’t need you to get on my nerves either.” He opened up one of the crates full of seed, filled up the pail, and began to scatter it around the pen.

“Can you believe him? As if I would marry an idiot asshole like him,” Virgil complained to his chickens. “Just imagine. Me as Mitchell’s husband… just thinking about it makes my skin crawl.” He shuddered and the chickens clucked, ignoring Virgil’s woes as they ate their seeds. Virgil dropped the pail onto the crate with a groan. “I want so much more than this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“I want…”

Longing built up in him, the feeling of suffocating securing its place around his throat. Before Virgil could properly understand, he was running, his breath coming out in sharp pants. He was running for as long as his legs could carry him, until they caved out from under him in a field of green shadowed with orange by the sunset. His entire body shook, a cold sweat breaking out.

In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. That’s what Thomas would say. Virgil sunk his fingers into the grass, eyes set on the horizon.

It was claustrophobic, being stuck in that damn town every day, Mitchell constantly harassing him. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t - he literally couldn’t breathe. He gasped, breathed in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. “I need to get out of here,” he whispered. He wanted to exist freely, without the judgement of the townspeople. He wanted to not have to be this way - this snide, caustic man people avoided out of fear. He wanted there to be more people than Thomas for him to be able to be himself with. He wanted. He wanted so, so much.

Virgil sat in the field and watched the sun go down, until his eyes dried up and he could feel his legs again. Then, he made his way back home, slowly and tiredly, until he collapsed on his bed and forgot the world in the night.

There was a banging on the door. It rattled the house, the walls. Virgil awoke to it, at first blearily, but then completely, and he struggled to get out of bed, at first falling on the floor. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the kettle from the kitchen, and then slowly made his way to the door, trying to breathe slowly. The door shook, and with each quake Virgil jumped. But slowly, he crept towards the door, the kettle held upright in his shaking hand. He peeped into the peephole and - oh. Oh no.

The kettle crashed to the floor. Virgil swung the door open, staring straight at Sacagawea.

“Where’s Thomas?” he asked her, pushing his way past her. She huffed in response, taking a few labored steps back. Virgil’s hands ran down her sides, noting the absence of the saddle and the wagon. His heart was beating somewhere in his throat. 

Sacagawea whinnied and backed up even more, until she was facing Virgil, and tugged her head towards the woods. 

“You want to go to the woods girl? Thomas is in the woods?” Sacagawea started to set off towards the forest, but Virgil grabbed the reins and held on. “What’s that?” he whispered.

Sacagawea stopped and pawed the ground impatiently. Virgil crept towards her hindquarters, something glimmering in the twilight on her pelt. His hand reached out, sliding along her side until his hand reached something warm and wet.

Blood.

Virgil started back, staring at his hand. In the dim light, he could just barely see the red sheen.

He wrapped his other hand around the reins. 

“Go, Saca,” he murmured. “Lead me to him.”

Not needing another wood, Sacagawea bolted towards the woods, and Virgil ran after, somehow keeping up with his injured horse, somehow not being dragged.

The journey into the woods was dark, but the path seemed clear. Sacagawea never hesitated, nothing blocking their way. It was as if the forest was clearing the way for them.

By the time that Virgil arrived at the gate, he had vomited three times and was dripping sweat. The sight of the castle still made him stop short though. It should have been late morning by now, but the clouds in the sky made it appear as if it was still in twilight.

Virgil stumbled on to the gate which swung forward on his weight, dragging him into the castle grounds. Sacagawea hesitated, skittered back, then charged forward. Virgil, still holding onto the reins, was ripped from his place on the gate and was dragged across the bridge, until he stopped abruptly. 

He lifted his head from the cobblestone and stared up at a great wooden door.

“Stay here, Saca,” he murmured to her after standing up, legs shaking. He looped the reins around one of the pedestals for the gargoyles and, without any decorum, pushed the door open.

The antechamber was darker than when Thomas had discovered it. There was no Remy to light up the room. The darkness should have been terrifying, especially to Virgil, who was much more cautious than Thomas. But Virgil had just ran alongside a horse for several hours, puked thrice, and got dragged along a bridge. He didn’t have much energy left to be afraid.

He stumbled into the room, ignoring Sacagawea’s warning neighs. “Is anyone here?” he asked, voice hoarse and throat hurting. Bile still burned in his mouth. “Thomas?”

There was no response. Virgil grabbed a torch from a wall and lit it on one of the candles, letting him take in the barbarous walls and scarlet rugs. A faint pang of worry hit his heart, but Virgil ignored it, letting himself go deeper into the castle.

He wandered in there for quite a while, calling out for Thomas and receiving no answer. Sometimes he saw things scuttle in the corner of his eye, though. Part of him thought it was wicked murderers who were going to kill him for trespassing, but another, more rational part of him told him it was likely just mice living in an abandoned castle. The strongest piece of him simply didn’t care if it was mice or killers; he just wanted to find Thomas.

After a staircase or two, a door opened to his left, some light matriculating down. It was the first part of the castle that seemed properly lit, which Virgil thought meant someone - hopefully Thomas - was in there, so he went into the room.

The room was small and circular, most of it taken up by a giant stone staircase. Every once in a while the wall had a hole in it where a candlestick was placed. It didn’t seem like a place Thomas would go, Virgil thought, but he might as well.

The staircase was steep and long, and more often than Virgil would have liked he was slumped against a wall, breathing deeply. But he kept his torch with him, until finally the stairs stopped at a long, thin corridor, lined with cages, with barely any light in it. If not for Virgil’s torch, he wouldn’t have been able to make out anything.

“Thomas?” he called out.

“Virgil!”

“Thomas!” Virgil ran to the source of the noise, which happened to be one of the first cages on the left. Virgil set his torch on the ground gingerly, then reached for Thomas’ hands. 

Thomas was crouched at the bars, looking pale and sickly. He didn’t look too beat up though, which calmed Virgil down. But his eyes were wide, fearful, and his hands were clammy.

“You’ve got to run, Virgil!” Thomas whispered, eyes darting around. “There’s no time to explain, but you’ve got to get out of this castle right now!”

“What? No, I’m not leaving you Thomas. Shut up.”

“Virgil, now is not the time to be stubborn. Believe me, I am the last one to be worried about a creepy abandoned castle in the woods, but you’ve got to get out now! Before he finds you!”

“Before who finds me?”

“Him! The -” Thomas stopped dead, eyes flickering up. Virgil, sensing a new presence, picked up his torch and flung it around. It was knocked from his grasp carelessly, landing in a puddle of water, plunging them into darkness save for a ray of light coming from Thomas’ prison’s window.

But Virgil could still make out a shape, looming and broad, at least eight feet tall. He could hear its heavy breaths, feel the heat emanating from it like a pyre. He could even glimpse the whites of its eyes.

“Who are you?” it asked, sounding like rocks scraped together. “And why have you invaded my castle?”

Virgil felt his throat close up. He coughed, tried to speak, coughed again -

“ANSWER ME!” the beast roared.

“His name is Virgil!” Thomas replied, standing up from the ground to grip the bars. “He is my family. Please, don’t hurt him!”

Thomas’ voice was enough to bring back Virgil’s. “Wha- what have you done to Thomas? Why do you keep him here?”

“I have no tolerance for thieves,” it growled. “Be grateful I have spared his life!”

“What? Thomas - Thomas would never have stolen from you! Besides, where’s his trial!”

It bristled. "He took a rose from me, Haebitch Corpus. There is no court of law in this castle!”

Perhaps it was the insult that gave Virgil the courage to argue with this dark and looming figure. “Wait. You’re imprisoning Thomas because he took a rose for you? A - a fucking rose? Are you fucking kidding me? How pathetic are you?”

The wall shook as the beast slammed what must have been a paw against it. “NEVER call me pathetic! I am the master of this house! I command you the instant you enter my grounds! Through my mercy I have spared this thief’s life, but that can easily be changed! You are NOTHING compared to me! I am the master, and I will have your respect!”

Virgil’s legs, in a combination of stress and fear, sank beneath him, but he grit his teeth and glared. “You want respect, beast? Earn it,” he spat.

The beast roared, seemed to lunge forward, when a smaller, calmer voice entered the fray.

“Perhaps, Master, a bargain may be struck,” the newcomer said from somewhere in the shadows.

“Oh quit it COGSworth, there are no more diplomats in this castle.”

“Obviously,” he said dryly. “But surely there must be a more - how do I put this - peaceable way to end this disagreement.”

“Why do I need peace when I can just get what I want now!” The shadow turned back to Virgil. “I will tell you once more - leave this castle and never return!”

Virgil, however, remained silent. His head was caught on the word ‘bargain,’ his mind turning and thinking, until just that moment, when he took advantage of the temporary silence of the corridor.

“Take me instead,” Virgil said, voice quiet but steady.

The shadow seemed to recoil. “Take you? At least the old man doesn’t get on my nerves. I’ve only known you for five minutes and I can’t stand you.”

“Yeah, well the feeling’s mutual. But the rose Thomas picked was for me, so I should be the one to pay the price.”

“No!” Thomas cried out. “Virgil what are you doing? Please master, don’t do this, just keep me!”

“That’s what I plan to do,” the beast said.

“Now now,” piped up Cogsworth. “The boy - Virgil, was it? - has had a good idea. It makes sense, does it not? Besides, do you not think he would more suit the castle’s needs?”

It seemed like Cogsworth was implying something there, something Virgil wouldn’t like, so he shot a confused and offended look in the direction of the voice. 

There was no response, at least for a while. Then, the beast spoke up.

“If you are to take his place,” the beast warned, voice calmer than it had ever been. “Then you are to stay here forever.”

“No, please Virgil, don’t -” Thomas whispered.

Virgil stared down at his knees, then pulled himself up to his feet. “Step into the light,” he commanded.

And the beast did.

First the light shone on its horns, dark and twisted, and then on its teeth, in which its canines jutted forward in a grotesque overbite. Its entire body was covered in thick, brown hair except for its nose ridge, which seemed to be scaled. Its browline jutted forward, and some of its body was hidden by the blood red cape it wore around its broad shoulders. Its hands were five-fingered and black-clawed, the palms covered in the same scales as its nose. Torn pants hung around its narrow waist, and its feet were bird-like in design, but as hairy as the rest of him. 

The most terrifying thing about the Beast of all, though, were its eyes. They were a deep, warm, brown, the light catching on them to make them look almost red. They were wide and disarming, and too human. It was as if the Beast had clawed the eyes out of a corpse and stuck them in his own head, craving their beauty.

Virgil fell to the ground, shaking. He could only say one word. “Yes.” He breathed in and cleared his throat. “I promise.”

“Done.” The Beast ripped open Thomas’ cage and hauled him out. Thomas protested, yelling for Virgil, but the Beast was fast and soon they were out of sight, it running down the stairs on all fours, carrying the only family Virgil had ever had away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes this week's chapter! Please comment if you liked it!


	6. Dinner Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: none

The Beast returned too soon, demanding Virgil get up. He did, but with a resentful slowness. 

“Follow me,” the Beast commanded.

“Where are we going?” Virgil asked, arms crossed.

“To your room,” the Beast growled.

“Uh, I thought this -” Virgil gestured to the cage “-was my room.”

“Well do you want to live here?” Virgil didn’t respond and the Beast scoffed. “That’s what I thought.” Without another word, it started down the stairs, grabbing a candelabrum from the wall. Virgil hurried after it.

The Beast led Virgil to the second floor, taking him along a long wide corridor that opened up to the floor below. It was a quiet walk, until the Beast’s voice stirred the air again.

“What’s your name? Virgil, right?”

“Yeah. What’s yours?”

“I don’t have one!” the Beast shouted, his red cape swishing behind him. “You may call me - the Master.”

Virgil narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I’m going to call you the Master now, am I? First you kidnap my father for picking a rose, then you kidnap me -”

“You agreed to it! And might I remind you, I am a monster! I am a Beast! I could kill you right now!” The Beast had turned around, its figure towering over Virgil.

“Then that’s what I’ll call you,” Virgil snarled, ignoring his heart beating in his throat. “Beast.”

If the Beast was human, it may have blubbered. Instead it leaned forward, until its breath fanned across Virgil’s face, and growled. Then it turned around and started down the passage again, at such a quick pace Virgil had to jog to keep up. After all of his running earlier, he only slightly regretted angering it. His legs felt like jelly.

Not soon enough, they arrived at a large blue door. The Beast pushed it open unceremoniously. If Virgil hadn’t have gotten in instantly, the Beast probably would have thrown him in.

From behind him, the Beast spoke. “Since you now live here, you may go anywhere you like, except the West Wing.”

“And why not?”

“Because I said so!” Virgil could feel the Beast turn away from him, and then stop. “And take a bath before dinner tonight.”

“Dinner?”

“You will eat dinner with me tonight.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf? I said, you will eat dinner with me! And don’t forget to shower! You smell like sweat and vomit.”

Then the door slammed shut, and Virgil was alone.

His legs gave way beneath him, and his knees hit the floor with a painful thud. His hands fell to the ground, Virgil hunched over, sobs breaking into the air. He cried until he couldn’t cry anymore.

“Patton, you must not be so exuberant,” Logan scolded from the tiling. Above him on the table, Patton was hopping about, organizing the kitchen staff to prepare dinner.

“I’m telling you Logan, he’s the one! He’s gonna break the curse!”

“While it would be pleasing to no longer be a clock, you cannot get your hopes up. We have six months until the Master’s birthday. The likelihood of the prisoner falling in love with the Master -   
especially when he is so dramatic and temperamental - is unlikely at best.”

Patton smiled down at him. “I’m not getting my hopes up, Lolo! I can just, feel it, you know? Virgil is going to teach our boy how to love!”

“He is not ‘our boy,’ Patton, as neither of us are his father.”

“Oh, that’s just a technicality. Now come on Logan, I know deep down you’re excited for the curse to be broken. That’s what you and Remy talk about isn’t it?”

“Indeed, it is the only subject that we can both agree on.”

“So why don’t you two work together?”

“Work together to do what, exactly?”

“Well make them fall in love, of course!”

Logan frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand how Remy and I could convince the prisoner and the Master to fall in love. Would you like me to set up a presentation for them?”

Patton, the adorable teapot, giggled. “No, silly! You just set up the situations for them to realize their feelings for each other.”

“What would these situations be, for example?”

“Well, there could be dinner, romantic gestures, a dance…” Patton sighed, and Logan was grateful he was a clock right now because clocks can’t blush.

“Those things interest you, yes?”

“I guess I’m just a romantic!”

Logan nodded. “Well,” he began hesitantly, “perhaps, after the -”

The doors to the kitchen burst open, revealing the Master in all of his bestial glory.

“Is dinner coming along?” he asked.

“Yep!” Patton popped his lid as boiling hot water was dumped into him. “I’m just preparing myself to go give him some pre-dinner tea!” He gasped, wide-eyed. “Does this mean we finally get to do the song?”

The Master balked and bristled. “Pat - I - I’m not a kid anymore!” He drew his cape around him and growled, claws gripping the floor. “And - I’m not frivolous! I am the Master - I am the heir apparent! I -   
fight in battle, not on the stage! So no, we will not be doing the stupid song!”

Patton eyed him. “Okay, okay,” Patton said. “No song. I understand, Ro-”

“You don’t get to call me by my name,” The Master snarled. The words were venomous enough to cause even Remy to flinch, but Patton didn’t waver. He just looked at him with his sad, porcelain eyes.

“Alright, Master,” Patton smiled, “I’ll go deliver Virgil his tea now.” Patton hopped onto his cart and wheeled out the door, the Master’s eyes following him until he was out of sight. He slumped ever so slightly, eyes downcast, before straightening up with a glare.

“What are you looking at! Get to work!” he pouted, before sitting down on a chair at the small kitchen table. The cutlery and the ovens all resumed their tasks, one knife skittering over the counters to get to the beef.

“You know,” Logan began dryly, “as ‘heir apparent’ you should treat your staff with more kindness. Especially considering how you just yelled at Patton, who is one of the only people who has treated you with unending patience.”

“Oh shut up, Cogsworth,” the Master grumbled.

“It’s CROFTsworth and you know it!”

“I hate to interrupt your little, er - argument - but I, personally, would like to stop being a candelabrum and start being my real, fabulous self again,” Remy said.

“It was not an argument -” Logan began.

“If it was I would have won.”

“I highly disagree with that statement -”

“ANYWAY,” Remy jumped on the table, turning to look at both the Master and Logan. “I think - I can’t believe I’m the one who has to be put in this situation, oh my god, I’m the reasonable one here - I   
think we should figure out what we’re going to do during dinner.” Remy gave a condescending smile to the Master. “After all, I’m sure even you have figured out who our little guest is.”  
“Prisoner,” Logan corrected.

“I’m not stupid, Remy! Of course I know who he is.” The Master draped himself over his chair, one monstrous leg hanging off the arm. “He’s Virgil,” he said with a wave of his hand.

“What Remy means,” Logan hopped onto the table, “is that Virgil could be the one to break the curse.”

“Oh, that. Of course I’ve realized that, why do you think I’m having him dine with me?”

“Well,” Logan grimaced. “While I’m glad that your highness has enough intellect to suss that out,” Logan ignored the Master’s offended gasp. “I must worry about your tactics in ‘wooing’ him. After all, your fate isn’t the only one depending on the prisoner.”

The Master leaned forward, teeth jutting towards Logan. “I know perfectly well the importance of this, Croftsworth. Don’t patronize me.”

“You might be the heir apparent, but I am the regent. You are not in a position to order me.”

“Which one of us is the big, hairy beast here, Logan? Huh? Is it you? No, it’s not, because you’re stuck as a clock for all time!”

Logan wiped the spittle off his glass. If he had a heart, it might have skipped a beat. “At least I am not an immature brat.”

The Master pounded his fist on the table, his long, rat tail lashing behind him, but he didn’t make a move. He and Logan simply stared at each other, long and hard, neither giving into each other. It wasn’t until Remy coughed that the standoff was broken.

“So,” Remy squeaked, “how exactly do you plan to make Virgil fall in love with you, Master?”

The Master turned to Remy with what could have been a smirk if he wasn’t a monster. “Easy! I simply find a reason to show off my dashing swordplay, kill some evil beasts, impress him with my   
chivalry, and Virgil will fall into my arms swooning.”

“I don’t think he’s the kind that swoons.”

“He will be.”

“And life is not a romance novel, Master,” Logan drawled. “I highly doubt that those tactics would work on Virgil, especially given his demeanor towards you.”

“He just doesn’t know how to handle himself!” The Master protested. “”And I do not read romance novels!”

“Of course not.” Logan rolled his eyes. “Be that as it may, part of the curse is that you must fall in love with him as well. Do you have a plan for that too?”

The Master opened his mouth, one scaled finger in the air. “I… do not have a plan for that, no.”

Logan sighed. “Of course you don’t.”

“Well it’s not like you’re a love expert Logan! How exactly are things going with Patton, anyway?”

“That is none of your business and you know it.” Logan inhaled, a long composing breath. “Now,” he said. “Let’s practice your manners.”

Virgil had found himself slumped by the bed, back resting against its foot. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the light, and the light didn’t turn itself on either. That was kind of a shock, to be honest. He guessed some things were still normal in this castle.

The door burst open and Virgil lifted his head, glaring. But it wasn’t the Beast’s looming figure, but rather the outline of a tray with some pots on it.

“Hel - oh my goodness where is the light?” a voice exclaimed. One of the pots jumped off the tray and waddled over to the side of the door. A moment later and light burst into the room, coloring Virgil’s mysterious guest.

It was a pot, as he had suspected. It was short and squat and white, with light blue detailing. Its face was grinning up at him, hopping forward until it got close enough to see the bags under his eyes and the dried vomit on his chin.

“Oh dear,” it said. “Oh, you poor kiddo! I’ll get Larry to run the bath.” The pot went over to the wardrobe. “Larry? Larry? Larry?”

The doors of the wardrobe sprang open, and a deep, marvelous baritone filled the room. “I’m awake!” it sang. Then the eyes of the wardrobe glared down at the pot. “Why?” it asked.

“We have a guest -”

“Prisoner,” Virgil corrected.

“- who needs a bath, Larry, and I was hoping you could draw it up for him.”

The wardrobe - Larry - seemed to peer at Virgil for a moment before grunting what must’ve been an assent, because it went out into a different door into what Virgil could only think of as a   
bathroom.

“Hi, kiddo. My name’s Patton. You must be Virgil!”

The pot had planted itself at Virgil’s feet, smiling up at him. Virgil furrowed his brow. “Did you say - your name’s Potton?”

The pot laughed. “No silly! I’m Patton! Patton Potts!”

“O - oh. Um, sorry, I guess,” Virgil said, placing a hand on his forehead.

“Oh don’t worry about it Virgil.” He turned to the tray above him. “Kai! Come down here!”

Slowly, a teacup crept to the edge and jumped down. He glowered up at Virgil. “Make it quick, it tickles,” he grunted.

“Thanks, but I’m not thirsty,” Virgil said, throat dry and parched.

“Sure you are!” Patton chirped. “Don’t mind Kai, he’s just a bit grumpy because he actually has to do something. We haven’t done much in a long time, you know.”

Virgil slowly picked up Kai, who rolled his eyes at his hesitance, and took a long sip of tea. And another. And another. He drank until every drop was gone, then put Kai back on the ground.

“See! I knew you were thirsty!” Patton was still smiling up at him.

“I guess you were right, uh, Patton.”

“You know, we all think that what you did for your father was very brave.”

“Thanks, but Thomas isn’t my father.”

“Oh? Then who is he?”

“He’s sort of like -” Virgil shook his hands, “- my caregiver, I guess. I’ve lived with him ever since I was young.”

“That’s very kind of him. I’m sorry that you’re the Master’s prisoner now,” Patton offered softly.

“What’s his problem anyway?”

Patton smiled again, but it was tinged with regret. “I know he can be…”

“Rude? Angry? Annoying?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to put it like that but…” Patton looked at the floor. “... I think you should give him a chance. There’s a lot of flaws he has to work on, but he really does try. When he can.”

Virgil shook his head. “I’m not really interested in giving my captor the benefit of the doubt, Pat. Can I call you that?”

“It’s ready!” Larry sang operatically. “Now get in it before it cools off!” he ordered.

Patton smiled again, this one wide and porcelain. “Go hop in your bath now. I’ve got to go back to the kitchen. See you at dinner!” Patton and Kai wheeled out of the room on their tray, the door   
swinging shut behind them.

By the time Patton made it back to the kitchen, the Master was pouting egregiously. He turned to him as soon as he rolled in, eyes lighting up with the hope a child would have that their father would scorn their sibling. “Patton! Thank goodness you’re back! Rosencrantz over here was giving me about lectures. As if I don’t know how to behave myself!”

“Do you know how to behave yourself?” Remy questioned.

“Yes!” The Master pounded his fist against the table hard enough to splinter wood. Logan stared at the crack.

“Clearly you don’t need my help. What could I have possibly been thinking?” he drawled.

“You know, Croftsworth, I’m beginning to think that you’re being sarcastic.”

“I knew there was a brain cell somewhere. Moving on,” Logan ignored the Master’s growl. “How was the prisoner?”

“He seemed pretty tired. I don’t think having dinner tonight is such a good idea.”

Both the Master and Logan balked. “Patton,” Logan began, “the Master must begin courting the prisoner as soon as possible for there to be even a chance that they might fall in love. I highly doubt six months is enough time at all for anyone to fall in love with another.”

“For once, I agree with the nerd. I don’t care if he’s tired, Virgil will dine with me, and he will fall in love with me.”

Patton looked skeptical, but before he could say otherwise, Logan turned to Remy. “Go and collect the prisoner for dinner, Remy.”

“You know, just because you’re regent doesn’t mean that I’m going to listen to you. After all, sweetheart, you’re a clock and I’m a candelabrum.”

“Just go get him, Remy.”

Remy rolled his eyes but strutted out. Logan huffed, then turned to the rest of the kitchen. “Start putting the dinner on the table,” he ordered to the trays, who obediently collected the wide array of food onto themselves and wheeled out of the kitchen.

“I’ll go out to the dining room and wait for him,” the Master said, getting up from his chair clumsily. It stuck to his behind, so the Master shook himself impatiently until the chair was rattled off him, slammed into the wall and broken into pieces.

The Master winced. “That wasn’t a person, right Logan?”

“No, no it was not.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“Now wait!” Patton cried out. “I know you and Lo have had your own prep time for this dinner, but I really think I could contribute here too. For instance, Master, you have got to be nice.”

“Nice? Be nice? I am nice, Pat!”

“To be fair, you are having dinner with your prisoner,” Logan pointed out.

“But he’s got a bed!”

“And no freedom as well. What a bargain.”

“SHU -”

“Okay, let’s calm down!” Patton hopped between the Master and the clock. “All I meant was that maybe you should, I don’t know, try and see how he’s doing.”

“You do have a fondness for talking about yourself,” Logan remarked.

“And most importantly,” Patton said, hopping directly in front of the Master. “Try not to get so mad.”

“I don’t get mad that often!” the Master complained, like the Master was wont to do.

At that moment, Remy reappeared in the kitchen, slightly out of breath. His candlelight was waning ever so softly, and he had a large, counterfeit smile on his face.

Logan looked around. “Where’s the prisoner?” he asked.

“Oh, well, that’s an excellent question, Logan,” Remy said.

…

... 

…

“Are you going to answer me?” Logan asked.

“Yes! Yes, of course!” Remy hopped against the wall, far away from the Master. “Well, you see.” He took a deep breath. The Master snorted impatiently. “The thing is… well, our little house guest… is not coming.”

“WHAT?” the Master roared. “How dare he! The sheer insolence, the disrespect -” The Master shot out the door, clawed feet skidding on marble. Patton and Logan hopped as fast as they could after him, but the Master was too fast. By the time they reached the staircase, the Master was already out of sight.

Virgil lounged in his bed, freshly cleaned, though still wearing the same clothes. Larry had fallen asleep immediately after resuming his original position, and Virgil was too nervous to actually bother him. Instead he contented himself with dreaming up escape plans. Maybe, if he took a running jump out the window, and prayed really hard, he wouldn’t die from impact.

Damn. This is pathetic, he thought. There aren’t even any books.

BAM BAM BAM. The doors shook on their hinges. Virgil jumped up, nearly rolling out of bed in shock. He had been expecting this, but he still wasn’t quite prepared for the fury of the Beast.

“I SAID YOU WOULD JOIN ME FOR DINNER!” it roared through the wood. Virgil took a moment to gather his courage before walking up to the door.

“If you recall, Beast, I never said yes!”

“I AM THE MAS-”

“The Master of this castle, yeah, we know, how about you sing a different tune? Honestly, one would think a Beast that’s been living in a castle would have thought of some different lines.”

The door shook, but the Beast still didn’t open it. At least it had some manners. “One would think a measly peasant brat would know his place!”

“Well unfortunately for you, you imprisoned the one peasant brat who doesn’t give a shit about other people’s expectations.”

There was a low, feral growling on the other side of the door and, although Virgil thought he did a pretty good job of hiding how terrified he was, couldn’t stop a shiver from running up his spine. The Beast might be an angry, arrogant asshole, but Virgil couldn’t deny that it was the most terrifying thing Virgil had ever faced off against. And that included Mitchell.

The door shook again, but Virgil held his place. “Fine! You don’t want to eat with me? Then you don’t eat at all!” it screamed. Then Virgil heard the thundering of massive paws on flooring, and the Beast was gone.

Virgil held still for a couple moments, then walked backward until he collapsed into the bed, breathing heavily. Four, seven, eight, Thomas would tell him. He missed Thomas.

“You know,” a voice started. “When I became a wardrobe, I at least thought that meant I could finally have some good sleep. Look who’s proving me wrong.”

Virgil glanced at Larry. “It’s not my fault the Beast is an entitled asshole.”

“Did I say that?” Larry asked pointedly. “I have lived with him all my life, and to this day I cannot stand him when he gets like that.”

“Thank goodness. It seems like everyone in this stupid castle is telling me to give the Beast a chance. As if I’m not it’s prisoner here.”

Larry’s eyes seemed to look at the door, where the Beast had been. “Let me tell you kid - what are you wearing!” Larry broke off, disgusted.

Virgil sat up, eyebrows wrinkled. “Um - my clothes?”

“You mean your grass-stained, puke-stained artifacts of clothing? I’m not placed in this room for decoration you know! Change your damn clothes!”

Virgil groaned and rolled his eyes, but obediently marched over to the wardrobe. With what could have only been magic, clothes were ejected into Virgil’s face. When he had finished changing, Larry had thrown his old clothes away. And for some reason, Virgil couldn’t forget that meant he had nothing left of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did not mean to participate in no content november, and yet...  
> anyways, here i am! life has been crazy. if this isn't updated next week, it probably won't be updated for around six months. don't worry about it.   
> hope you enjoyed, and leave a comment if you did!

**Author's Note:**

> This was just the prologue, which is why it is so short. Most of the chapters are much longer! This is also pre-written, so it will be completed. I hope to update every week. And just so you know, there will also be an epilogue, which puts the actual storyline at 26 chapters!  
> The title comes from an opera comique based on the original Beauty and the Beast by our girl Gabrielle. I thought it was perfect because a) it's an opera and b) Maurice's character is named Sander in it, which was really just perfect. This will follow the plotlines of the original, the 1992 Disney version, and the 2017 Disney version. I tried my best to make the story my own (well, as much as I could while using characters that aren't mine) so motivations are different and such.  
> I started this story in 2016, which is why Remus is excluded. I thought about retconning him in but he just didn't fit. I finished it just a couple of days ago but hopefully editing will make my writing style consistent. I might upload the first chapter earlier than expected because this is just a prologue, so tell me what you think I should do!  
> As always, I hope you enjoyed, and please leave a comment if you did! I welcome critiques to my writing. I try my best to respond to comments as well. Have a good time!
> 
> P.S: Spot the Hamilton reference.


End file.
